


No Common Sense, Another POV II thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 10:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A companion piece to JiM's "No Common Sense" series, written with her cheerful permission, and is a gift to her.





	No Common Sense, Another POV II thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

A Scent of... Another POV by Leila, the Wicked Witch of the West

29 Jan 1998  
Story: A Scent of... Another POV, M/K, PG-13, 1/1  
Disclaimer: All the characters belong to CC and 1013 Productions. This work of fiction is intended only for enjoyment of fans.  
Note: This is a companion piece to JiM's "A Scent of..." , written with her cheerful permission, and is a gift to her.  
Warnings: Angst, fog, light-craft warnings.  
Feedback: Constructive feedback would be most welcome at: 

* * *

A Scent of... Another POV  
By Leila, the Wicked Witch of the West

It always seems to be cold when we meet. Does he bring the cold with him? I shiver as the street lights slide by, tiny, surreal suns in the fog. Driving to meet him again. To meet him without telling anyone, without back up, a known killer, a traitor. Breaking rules again, for him... For information I tell myself, for information.

I am not like Krycek. The words run through my mind like a piece of long forgotten music, I am not like him at all. When I check the rearview mirror my eyes shine back denial.

The parking lot is almost empty, plenty of spaces near the footbridge. The fog is much thicker here, moving with a life of its own up off the river. A gift from the sea to cover the reality of this unreal place. I know that I will have to wait for him, Krycek will make sure there are no tails. I have already done the same thing on the drive over. Done it without even thinking about it. I am not like Krycek.

Still the sharp knock on the passenger window sends me jumping. Unhooking the seat belt, I ease over and unlock the passenger door.

Alex Krycek slips into the car. Moisture glinting off his dark hair, his eyelashes, beaded on his very expensive overcoat. He locks the door, locking in the cold, lonely smell of the fog. He brings the fog to me.

-Mulder.

-Krycek. My voice is calm, controlled.

In the dim light of the dash his eyes shine. The feral gleam of a domesticated animal gone wild, an animal you approach with great caution. Does he see the same in mine, the shine that comes through when the veneer of civilization wears thin? No, I'm in control here. I know how to make this restive feral animal compliant.

He smiles, almost as if he knows what I am thinking.

-Something funny? The fog is hanging in the car.

-I think we need a sound track. You know, something suited to...he waves his hand, to all this.

Gloves, he is wearing a glove. Jesus, is this the time? Is it here he is going to end it all? One quick shot to the head...like all the others. One quick shot, then lay the gun down on the seat as he slides back out to rejoin the fog. Have I misread the need I saw in his eyes, those feral animal eyes? The need that shone with fever brightness when we last met.

A twisted kind of smile touches my lips.

-Something mysterious and eery, suited to shady deals made with hired killers in dark places at midnight? 

Knowing as soon as I say it that I had been right. He doesn't want to kill me. No, oh no, he wants something worse, much worse. Something that surely I can twist and use to my advantage. I am not like Krycek.

The heater has been on all along and the car is finally warming up. I see the almost invisible relaxation of his body to the warmth. He unbuttons his overcoat, his single hand moves with precision. 

How long had he been standing there, waiting? Waiting in the cold and the fog, waiting for me? How did he know that I would not bring death with me? Why did I not bring that death with me?, echoes in my head.

In the warmth, another scent has joined battle with the lonely smell of the fog. It is there, right at the edges of my senses. Again, like something long ago forgotten, it tugs at my memory.

I brush it away by reaching for the lapel of overcoat. Quite a step up from the old leather jacket he wore when we last met...wore as he stood shivering with fever in a dark, dank doorway.

-You've come up in the world. 

I run my fingers up and down, feeling the smooth richness of the cashmere. His expression seems to slip from cool, profession killer for just an instant.

-Business has been good.

I feel his breath catch as I slide my hand up and down. Almost by its own volition, my hand stops over his heart. I sense the rapid pulsings more than feel them. With that trapped beat jerking under my hand, I know, I know what will soon be happening. I am in control. I am not like Krycek.

-What do you have for me? Playing the charade necessary for us both.

-A woman's address.

-Which woman? Is that my hand trembling against him or only the catch in his breath, the skip in his heart beat?

He reaches inside his suit jacket, while my insides clench with sudden fear...was I wrong?

-This one. 

He pulls out a small back and white picture, a snapshot capturing an instant of the past. He shows it to me like a proud child bringing home a good grade. Flipping it over to show the address written on the back.

-What's the price? 

Anger floods me. What is the *price* of knowledge, the price of truth, the price of knowing where Samantha is? What is the goddamned price? My hand tightens on his coat.

Words bubble out of his mouth.

-It's a current address, Mulder. I checked it myself. She was there this afternoon.

I want to hit him. Hit him again and again and again. Smash all those sleepless nights into his face. Smash my father's blood, sticky on my hands, into his brain. Smash all of Scully's grief and pain and fear into him. Smash what is now roiling and curling, moving through me like a hot fog, into his body.

-The price. I can barely get the words out.

-I don't need the money anymore, Mulder.

The truth in that statement stops the anger cold. Without thinking, I have pulled him up close to me. I want to see him. I know the price. 

I know the price. I am cold with the knowledge. Why is he shivering? I am the one so cold, I am the one whose world has just shifted off its axis. The knowledge is my weapon. I have to use it. I am not like Krycek.

-I know what you want, Krycek. I know.

Now there is fear in those sharp feral eyes. It makes me almost happy. The car smells of fear and need. I like the smell. The feel of his body close to mine, held in an instant of silence. No movement, no sounds ... nothing but the cold, lonely fog outside separating us from reality. And the hot fog inside waiting to be ignited.

I kiss him.

In that act I revel in power, in control.

Grinding my teeth into his, he is beneath contempt. Forcing him to accept my tongue in his mouth. See, feral animal, see. I am not like you at all.

I lock my fingers in his hair, waiting, hoping for him to fight back. Waiting for him to answer violence with violence. There is a soft touch on my shoulder.

I yank his head back, hard, his face a blur before me. But no scent of fear now, it has vanished as though blown away by some unfelt wind. Now the danger smells almost sweet, hot vanilla coiling around us. Control is being blown away by that same ghost wind. Gone, only tattered fragments of it remain, hanging about me like wisps of fog.

I strain to gather those fragments, chanting in my soul, I am not like Krycek, I am not like Krycek. A mantra to shield me, it will help me reweave those fragments of control back into something complete, something whole. 

I will bring them all down. I will know the truth. The mantra now screams in my head.

-Is this the price, Alex? 

Hearing it as a scream, while the words are forced out in a vicious whisper.

\- How far do I have to go? How much do you want for the picture, Alex?

His head shakes in denial. For the moment, I am in control. For the moment, I am the one using violence. I almost feel good, feel strong. I am not like Krycek.

-Come on Krycek, name your price; here I am.

With those words I am lost. Never to understand why I am giving him what I have fought for so long and so hard. It was mine. No longer.

He kisses me.

My mouth opens to his kiss, to his tongue. There is no demand here, no contempt. Deep inside me something ever so slowly relaxes. I want this to go on forever.

My hand tangles with his; I was still gripping his hair, now I am holding his hand. His hand still hidden from me in that glove.

He stops, he breaks the kiss. There is no air to breath, he has taken it with him. I try to breathe, hearing myself gulp in ragged gasps of air. No control now, no control... even the autonomic system is shutting down. Short-circuited in a way never before experienced.

I feel his mouth again on my cheek now, sliding down the curve of my jaw. It is soft and smooth, surrounded by the scratchy rasp of his skin. Tiny touches sparking live wires. Now on my throat. I have given him my throat, I have bared it before the feral animal. All control gone, given up.

Oh, please...the groan rips out of me. He is there; biting, sucking, licking, kissing while my heart beats in time with each touch of his mouth. I fall into a wanting that I had never dreamed was there. No knowledge, no control, no fighting this free fall flight that leaves me unable to breath, unable to move... 

The wanting surges through. I try to push his clothes aside, the soft cashmere now feeling rough and harsh on my hand. Pulling at his shirt, wanting more, more contact to soothe these screaming nerve ends.

Oh, please.

He is back at my mouth; I can taste him, feel him. His hands are on my shirt, pulling, pushing, stroking. I was right, right all along. He does want this, he needs this. The knowledge sings in my ears. I was wrong, wrong all along, for I want this, I need this.

My mantra shatters into a million tiny glowing pieces and blows away with the ghost wind.

Again, sound rips from me and I lean into him, begging for more. Wanting it over and done with. Wanting it never to end.

He pulls his mouth away from me. No, no, please. Time freeze- frames his face in my mind. His mouth, swollen and slick. His eyes no longer feral, only dazed. 

I want to reach out and pull him back, back into a kiss. Nothing is working, nothing moves. Even as I am screaming inside to touch him, my arms and hands lay slack. The sandpapered nerve ends refuse to allow the impulse to pass...there is no movement.

-Paid in full, Mulder.

God, was that whimper mine or his?

He fumbles with the door, half-sliding out. The cold rushes in to fill the space he leaves. The fog is back; the cold, lonely smell flooding in behind him to bury the scent of hot vanilla.

He walks away. He does not look back. He rejoins the fog.

I wait for my body to be returned to me. I wait for those nerve ends, rubbed raw in an instant, to seal over. I wait for control, my head in my hands. Trying to understand, to find just where I said the wrong thing, made the wrong move. Why did I allow this to happen?

The black and white snapshot curves against my heart, tucked in my shirt pocket. Tucked there by Alex Krycek as I gave him more, much more than he had asked for. Feeling seems to return in bits and pieces. The burn on my cheek from his skin. The small sparking point on my throat, still pulsing from the need in his mouth. I want to scream in pain. In anger. In frustration. To howl like a trapped animal. 

No, now it is all over.

I smash my fists into the steering wheel like I had wanted, oh so much, to smash into him.

Turning the car around, I begin to track my way back to the apartment, guided by those tiny, surreal suns in the fog.

 

* * *

 

Tue, 17 Feb 1998 21:50:32 EST

Story: A Taste of...Another POV  
by Leila

M/Sk, PG, 1/1  
Disclaimer: CC and 1013 own the characters. no copyright hassles intended, this fiction is purely for entertainment of slash fans over the age of consent. If you're not all of these things, please leave now. Note: This story is a companion piece to JiM's "No Common Senses: A Taste of..." and is written with cheerful prodding, consent and encouragement.   
Feedback: Please! To < >

* * *

A Taste of...Another POV  
By Leila

I am not sure how long I have been driving. No place to go.

The cold night air has finally taken over the car. When I turned the heater off the car was hot, uncomfortably hot. I was hot. Nothing is right. The car smells as if there has been a fire inside of it. The steering wheel is hard and inflexible in my hands. Something else should be in my hands. Someone else...should be in my hands.

What *is* this taste in my mouth?

Disgust for myself. For what I have almost done. There is a sharp, bitter pain flashing between my eyes. A headache to echo the slow throb in my groin. A pain I haven't felt in a long time. The adrenaline rush is fading, very quickly now, letting me feel the physical realities left behind. No sleep tonight, that's for damn sure.

The long muscles in my thighs are starting to twitch as I walk into the building. The adrenaline is all gone now, leaving just the waste products behind. 

I need a drink, I need to pee, I desperately want a handful of aspirin.

The apartment is dark, throwing the deadbolt, clicking the small lamp by the door, I turn...

He must have been driving a bureau car, or on foot. I never saw his car. Even in this fog, the physical one, the mental one, I was still checking, still looking. Sometimes being paranoid is a good thing.

Jesus, it's like running into a wall. There he sits in the dim light.

Once again, much too soon, my body is gearing up to the flight or fight response, flooding me with adrenaline. My mouth goes dry. No, no, no more, not tonight. No more.

He stands and steps toward me.

-Sir?

It's Skinner. Walter Skinner, looking at me like I'm someone he has never seen before, like he has a bad taste in his mouth.

-Where the hell have you been, Mulder?

An images flashes through my head, a parent waiting up for a disobedient child. Before I can think I am hiding in sarcasm.

-Did I miss curfew, *Dad*?

Wrong. I know it as soon as I say it. He is across the space separating us, way too fast, reaching for me. Grabbing my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the muscle. He gives me a hard shake, the fight response triggers. I shove him away, hard, breaking his grip, moving him out of my space. Wanting him out of my face. I am almost panting.

-What the hell's wrong with you?

God, which one of us said that? Why is he here? What does *he* want? His voice low, intense, hits me like a slap.

-Are you trying to torpedo your career? Are you *trying* to get arrested for treason? What the hell do you think you're doing, meeting with Krycek?!

The adrenaline mutates to instant anger.

-You followed me?

-Damn right I did, Mulder. And what did I see?

He shuts his eyes, blocking out the sight of me.

God, *what* did he see?

The anger in the room is something thick and heavy, cold slush setting into hard blue ice. I give in, welcome it, here I am in control. I know the words this time, I don't have to search for them.

-You saw me meet my informant.

The words chip out, pieces of ice. It feels good. Here I am, safe behind my walls again.

-I saw you...

He saw us.

A great weight is suddenly gone. There is no more fear - the worst has just happened.

-It's none of your business.

Well done Mulder, give yourself a pat on the back and brace for what is sure to come - Hiroshima. Armageddon. Melt-down.

His hands clench into fists, but he doesn't step forward or raise them. I watch with no small admiration for his strength, his sureness, his control. What would it be like to be the cause of Walter Skinner losing control? Why am I even answering him?

-Oh yes, it is, Mulder. You know who he works for.

-Not anymore. He's gone freelance.

-The fact that he's available to the highest bidder doesn't make me any happier, Agent Mulder.

Formula words, run up the flag, to show me who's the boss. Does he *really* know what he saw? He couldn't have been that close. No way could he have seen. Krycek would have checked the entire site out, the lot, everything around it, just like I did. Krycek wouldn't have kept the meet. Would he? 

Why don't I want Skinner to know? Why do I want Skinner to know? Why was I glad when said he *saw*, and afraid at the same time?

-Why Mulder? Why Krycek?

He did *see*.

Surely he hears the breath hiss out between my teeth. Quick, answer him, now.

-He has information that I need, Sir.

He has something that I need, that's for damn sure. But I don't think it's information.

-And there is no other *source* for that *information* within regular channels?

I can't believe he is saying this. Is he offering me something? What? The same thing that Krycek offers? No, it can't be that. Get a grip Mulder, this is Walter Skinner. God alone knows what he would be offering, if anything. 

Use it though, if that's what *it* is, then use it.

Time to change direction.

-You wouldn't even tell me the Smoking Man's name. Sir.

I want answers, Skinner, give me answers. Don't give me more confusion. Don't make me do what I have already done tonight to get those answers. Give me the truth, Walter. 

Anger and adrenaline are draining away; the walls are starting to crumble. 

-I looked for her.

I clench my teeth. No, Skinner, not this way, it isn't going to be that easy. My throat aches as I swallow words back. I rub the mark Krycek's teeth left. 

Time to show him the snapshot and the address.

-This is where she is.

He reaches for the photo, turning it in his hands, looking at her face, his expression unreadable.

Then with his words, in a voice that could chip granite, he tears out my heart and hands it back to me.

-What did Krycek want in return?

Not enough. Way too much. Why am I still standing here? I should be in the shower, that handful of aspirin should be working, the alcohol warming me. Why am I still standing here with him?

-I didn't pass any classified material, if that's what you're worried about.

Again that quiet, implacable voice tears into me.

-What did Krycek want, Mulder?

-It was cheap at the price.

The silence goes forever. He is gone somewhere else. Still standing here, unmoving, looking at me, but not seeing me. Somewhere else. Where are you, Walter? Break the silence now, please.

But it is my voice that I hear.

-The shooter's name cost a thousand dollars.

-That *is* cheap.

-Well that's Krycek's style, isn't it?

With a small smile, he is back with me.

-Write up the report and the Bureau will reimburse you.

I nod, stripping off my jacket. Hot again, hot and jittery. Nothing fits, not even my skin. Everything aches. I need a shower. God knows what I must smell like. Dropping my jacket on a chair. Now I know that it's the stale, musty taste of fatigue in my mouth. I want to drop myself into the chair. I am so tired now. Can't do that though, at least not while he is here. Won't set myself in a position under him. Not here, not now.

-And the photo?

-No charge.

My tie feels like it is choking me. I pull it off, letting it drift to the floor. 

He steps closer, his nose wrinkling just a bit. Get out of my face, Skinner, if you don't like the way I smell. Is this night ever going to end?

-Please, just go, Sir.

Cannot let go until he leaves. Do I want him to leave? So damned tired. Everyone keeps asking me for something. Things I can't give, won't give. We need to get this over with.

-Where did he touch you, Mulder?

The sounds, the words, lay in my mind. Small, salty tastes of sorrow in my mouth now. Where did *this* voice come from? I can't label it, can't describe it. Was he finally asking something that I could give him? Something that I wanted to give him?

I reach up and touch my shoulder, then my hand drops back to my side.

He moves toward me, very slowly, as if he expects me to shy away. I want to, God knows, I want to. But I want to be touched even more. His hand, ever so gently, touches me, there, where Krycek has left his touch. I shiver as the very last of the anger and adrenaline flows away. Then we just stand quietly, his hand still covering my shoulder...erasing Krycek.

Again the voice, a touch in itself.

-Where else, Mulder?

My hand shakes as I raise it to my cheek. He captures that hand in his, reaching out, oh so slowly to stroke my cheek with his other hand. The warmth from his touch eases into the void left by our anger. Krycek is erased again.

I know what he wants. I watch his face. What are you thinking, Skinner, what are you thinking? Far away, little warning bells are ringing loudly in my head. I turn them off, giving myself over to the diversion. 

-Where...?

There are no words for me now. No gestures. I think I am testing him, waiting to see if knows the right answer. Can you read me, Walter? Can I read you? I think so. What is *your* price? What is...

My knees start to buckle.

He kisses me.

I am drowning. Holding on to him, hands moving on him, over him. He tastes clean, the sharp smoky taste of good whiskey. Is this the drink that I had been wanting all along? {{{No demands from him. Just warmth, feeling.}}}}}

So I demand, holding him in closer, pulling him in.

We break for air. The loss of contact is confusing. I want *back*, to that warm place where I don't need to think, where I can simply feel. I demand again.

-Here...

Taking his hand, moving it across my chest. I want to taste him again. I am empty with wanting. His thumb is at my throat.

He kisses me.

I own this taste, now, storing it in my memory. He trails his mouth across my face, my jaw. Again sharp as memory, a groan is ripped from me. Once again tonight, I bare my throat, strangling the doubt. Each touch of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth imprint something new. I gasp from the pain of that branding.

Then there are no more demands, no more claims. I rest against him as our breathing slowly returns to something close to normal. He is stroking me, as one would ease a tired friend. With that thought, my knees buckle again.

He backs away. What is this? Doesn't he want to... Isn't that what this whole damn night has been leading up to? 

Now, Skinner, now. The sex will be hard and bright. Quickly over with. That's all I want tonight.

-Sir? Don't you want...

-Oh yes, Mulder, I want. But not now, not tonight.

-I don't understand.

What an understatement. My mind twitches with the thought.

-You're tired, Mulder. Sleep.

Sleep? My mind twitches again and I try to smile at him.

-As if I could sleep now.

He gives me a push toward the bedroom, we stand in the doorway. I don't understand this, I can't decipher the look on his face. I can do this, I am sure I can do this.

-Aren't you going to tuck me in? 

Just tease him a bit.

-Have pity on an old man, Mulder.

I smile at him. I have him now.

-No mercy, Walter. When the time comes, no mercy.

I promise, knowing the hard truth in those words.

He is gone from the apartment, gone.

Ah, who won that one? Who lost? In my weary mind, echoes of this night begin to crowd back. Just where did that fatal error occur, where was it all lost? 

I find myself back in the living room, turning the dead bolt, making my apartment safe. As safe as it could ever be.

There's a sense of something missing here. Missing... I look around, how could I tell? There is a scent in the air, crisp and clean, like the ocean at dawn when I was a kid, walking the beach.

The emptiness is Skinner. That recognition rocks me. It's his absence, his bulk, his presence that is missing. I am so used to that empty place, so numbed by it, that I have not noticed the pain. 

I want him here.

That is quickly followed by the realization that I am glad that he isn't here. At least not yet.

In the shower, maybe I can wash this night away. Standing there, for long, long minutes letting the hot water pound into me. Mouth open to the spray, washing away all the tastes of this night.

There is another day coming. Another day for us both. Another day for all of us.

Staggering into the bedroom, falling, still damp, onto the bed. This night, it does not reject me. This night, blessed oblivion.

Finis

 

* * *

 

Fri, 6 Mar 1998  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for private enjoyment of fans. No copyright infringement intended.  
Archive: MSSS/MKRA, Mona's page  
Feedback: Yes, please, to   
Note: This is Part 4 of the "No Common Senses" Companion series. The rest of the series by JiM, and its companion pieces by Leila, can be found at MKRA/MSSS or at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html (thanks Mona!)  
Author's note: Given with pleasure to JiM, the one who said take it and run. Hope this is far enough and fast enough, Master.  
And with love to the Wizard Brother

* * *

****  
A Sound of...Another Point of View  
By Leila, The Wicked Witch of the West  
****

For the first time since our game of seduction began, he has asked me out two nights in a row. He showed up in the parking garage as I was leaving work with an invitation to dinner. He followed me to the apartment and we drove in his car to an inn over in Virginia. This is someplace special for him; I see his pleasure at sharing the elegant serenity of this very old place.

For a moment I wonder if this is some sort of a test, a test that has become very important for me to pass. That is what my life has seemed to be so far; a long series of tests, exams, tasks, games. Yes, games, set in motion by my hand that become more valuable in the winning, the taking of the trophy, than in the game itself.

So tonight I am charming, laughing with him. We are away from the confines of the office, the restrictions of the *job*. I find myself wanting to make him smile, make him enjoy this special place even more because we are here together.

He sits there, almost in shadow, limned by the flames in the massive colonial fireplace behind him. I have come to appreciate just how *still* he can be, self contained within the bulk of his large frame. Sitting, holding the brandy snifter in one hand, watching me with a slight smile on his lips. I have found ways to make those lips open for me, both in laughter and in desire.

Then he does his "Skinner thing"; he's still sitting there, but his mind is somewhere else.

-Walter?

I must have spoken too softly, he does not respond.

-Walter?

Louder this time.

-I was just remembering.

He rumbles at me.

Remembering what? Surely he can't be thinking of someone else.

-I was remembering how you looked last night. And felt.

Heat floods through me; in its rush I can find no charming words, no witty response.

######

Last night we had gone to see the Wizards play. There, caught up in the crowd, the game, we allowed ourselves an evening of fun. We were just *us*, two guys enjoying a night at the basketball game.

I was pleasantly surprised at how Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner could become someone else in Levis and Nikes, someone who I could spill beer on and steal popcorn from.

I noted that using a sports event could be an interesting way to move this game of seduction along. Something for the next time, perhaps. For me this had gone on much too long, and was moving much too slowly.

With each of the other times that we had gone out, he walked me back to the apartment, stepped inside...and for a few, oh so brief, moments allowed me the freedom I wanted with him.

With taste and touch, lips and hands, I have explored, studied his body, his breathless reaction to my attempts to seduce him. While there are times when I am not sure how I want to be fucked, Walter seems to be very sure just what it will take to move him into that act.

He wants it though, I can tell from each tiny shivering signal his body sends back for my observation. He wants it. Twined in with that wanting is something else, something I don't yet understand. If I did, I could use it. Use it and move this game along.

It was during that brief, brief time last night, as we stood mouth to mouth, tasting of beer and popcorn, that I decided I could no longer wait for his next move.

-Stay.

I asked, voice sounding calm, not begging, not demanding.

-Not tonight. Soon.

-There's an ugly word for this kind of behavior, Walter.

I felt my hands curl into fists at his refusal, it surprised me. This *wanting* has been chewing at me harder than I have realized.

-And there is a nicer word for it. Soon.

With that he kisses me, and leaves.

Leaves me there with words dying on my lips. And determination growing as hard as my cock.

#######

The meal is very good. Talking with him over the salad, steak and baked potato, I actually found myself eating with pleasure. Something that doesn't happen often for me. A thought flashed through my mind; good company, good conversation can make even fast food into a gourmet meal. Wonder where that came from, since the meal we have just enjoyed was anything but fast food.

We prepare for the usual ritual of paying the bill. Once again the sureness of self, of identity, shows in Walter Skinner. He always pays, always, no matter if we have just had a meal together or gone to the movies. I wonder if he feels like he *must* pay, pay for the wanting. Pay for me. My time. My body. It is an ugly thought and I shove it away.

We don't talk much on the drive back to the city. The silence is comfortable. We sit as companions, friends, within the enclosed space of the car, watching the moon washed road unfurl in front of us. For awhile, I sit with my hand on his leg. The muscle under the skin twitches. With anticipation, I hope.

There is much we should talk about. Words that need to be said between us. But not tonight. Not tonight. Tonight I will be going to bed without that dull ache between my thighs. Oh, yes. Last night's too abrupt ending had forged my determination into iron hard resolve.

The steps take forever. I unlock the door, move back, ushering him in ahead of me. I don't remember shutting the door, but I can hear it slam. He is starting to turn, as I grab him, spinning him the rest of the way around, walking him back up against the door. Holding him there with the full length of my body.

-No mercy tonight, Walter. You are not leaving here until you fuck me.

My voice comes out in a whisper, I hear it as a shout.

His eyes widen, he has a strange look on his face as he shakes his head. No. No?!

-You're wrong Mulder. I'm never going to *fuck* you.

My lip curls. Up against him, I have gone hard. I can feel his equally hard response. My hands dig into his arms.

-You *bastard*.

He is speechless. Walter Skinner searching for something to say. It would almost be funny.

I want to howl. To move my hands to his throat.

-I am going to make *love* to you.

Love?

The word clatters down my mind like a bright silver bearing rushing down a neon glowing pin ball table. Bang. Buzz. Tilt. This is *not* what I expect from him. Is this what I want from him?

-There's a difference?

I push into him, watching, waiting for his body's response. The response that I have taught him to give me.

He is speaking, even as the fire is growing in his body. He is throwing off heat, like that fireplace in the inn. The air seems to shimmer around him.

-Oh yes, there's a difference. And one other thing. If I stay tonight, I'm not leaving...

He pauses. Here we go, I brace myself for the Skinner rules and regulations regarding fucking.

-...ever.

The silence after that word is the loudest thing that I have ever heard.

He kisses me.

There is nothing I can do but give him what he wants. What we both want? I open my mouth to him, our tongues touch and curl around each other. He tastes of good brandy. And a taste that I have grown to call Skinner. All the while, I am stripping him of every piece of clothing that I can, pushing back everything that I can. Taking off the suit that he wears like armor, wanting to leave him defenseless against my attack.

He wants to move as I kiss my way over him, seeing with my lips what the eyes don't see. He needs to move and twist and push up to me, but I hold him tight, controlling our play. His skin is warm, quivering under my touch. My breath humming its way down, down to the hardness that is straining for me.

Now I have his full attention. His teeth click together as I rub my cheek across his cock. The look on his face tells me that I am doing just the right thing. This is what wet dreams are made of. Whose dreams?

I take him in my mouth. He is clawing at the door, losing control, ceding it to me. I know I have him when his hands dive down to grip my head against him. Now is the time to tease a little, leaving nothing in my mouth but the very tip, I grasp him firmly and began to pump the hardness. His teeth clench even tighter; I know to slide my mouth over him, *now*, sucking him in, feeling the heat of him, the taste of him. There is no sound as he bucks against my mouth, giving up all of his certainty to me.

It is over much too soon.

Again there is silence.

Looking up him, enjoying the dazed look of pleasure on his face, I wipe my mouth.

-Debauched is a good look for you, Walter.

Now I am laughing for the sheer joy of winning. With sudden movement, he yanks me to my feet and we are moving. Moving, kissing, trying to continue to undress and make it to the bedroom still wrapped in each other's arms. It must look like some kind of mad dance, toeing off shoes, throwing suit coats in one direction, ties suddenly hanging from light fixtures. I am laughing, kissing him, wanting to get in that bedroom, now. Wanting him in me, now.

We tumble into the bed, I pull him down on top of me. Holding his large frame tightly to me, I offer him the spot that he seems to love best, my throat. I want this, this mark that has not faded. A mark that he has renewed each time we meet. The sharpness of his teeth sends a shudder running through me. Then he is trailing kisses down my chest, stopping to kiss and suck on each nipple. I am shaking now, tremors that I can't seem to control. I am rock hard.

When the heat of his mouth touches the head of my cock, I arch up to him. Wanting it all in his mouth, wanting all of him in me.

-Walter, please.

Where are those sounds coming from? Who is speaking my thoughts, my screams for release? Can't be me, since I am drowning in a sea of sensation. There is no air. Then he leaves off torturing me, and recaptures my mouth.

-Now?

That mewling voice *can't* be mine.

-Now, Fox.

He raises up and I turn under him. Pawing at the bedside table, I am able to yank open the drawer. Handing him the condom and the lube, I turn back to him.

There is an instant of silence. He pauses, raising an eyebrow.

-I told you Walter, no mercy.

Then we are kissing, moving against each other. The feel of his hardness against mine is exciting me far more than I thought it would. Don't want to go now, not now. The best is coming, I know that, have to wait. I am panting with the stress of trying to hold on, to not move.

Face to face, even without his glasses on, I can feel the pressure of his gaze on me. He wants to see my face, he wants to watch me go. The game is careening out of control for us both.

The pillow is under my hips almost by magic. I raise my legs, wanting it all, wanting it now. The cool slickness of the lubricant causes me to jerk under his hand. One finger in, I buck against it, wanting more.

-No, not yet.

That is his voice, deep, rumbling into me.

Then two fingers, hitting that spot that sends an electric shock of pleasure through me. That high pitched cry I recognize all too well. It has ripped its way through my clenched jaws. I have lost control of the game. I want this to go on forever. I know that it can't, for if he doesn't stop, I will come. I raise my legs for him, notching my heels into his broad shoulders.

Then...

He is in me, slowly, slowly, ever so gently. He pauses to allow me the sensation, the knowledge of that brief, bright instant when (pain) invasion slides into pleasure. The filling hardness that changes what was to be a cry of pain into a gasp of hot reward.

I will hear that same gasp from you, Walter Skinner, I promise myself. I will hear it before this night is over.

Recognizing the invitation given, he moves farther inward. A tiny shiver pushes me back, tighter on him. Ah... Ah... Why am I fighting him *now*? His hands are hot on my hips, his mouth hot on mine. He is moving me slowly, gently. I buck hard against him, wanting it all, wanting it all, now.

-Easy, Mulder, easy. Let me love you.

-I'm not glass, Walter. Please. I won't break.

This gasped out against his mouth. He doesn't seem to realize that I can't hold still, I must move against him, take in all that he is. All...all that he has. The bed becomes our playing field. What was slow and sweet rockets up to a fierce giving and taking. No holding back, I lock my legs around him, my hands slip in the sweat that is soon covering us both. There is no anchor for me now, nothing seems to hold in my grip, not his shoulders, not the sheets, not even the bed itself. The noise of our breathing fills the room, no silence now. Short gasps and cries of pleasure from us both, echo, as if from some other place. The slap of our bodies on each other is punctuation for the play book we are creating.

He is smiling, his hand is on my cock. Now the rhythm is found, the one we have both been working towards. The rocket arcs higher carrying us both. With each thrust he is saying my name. Fox, Fox, over and over again. My name. His hardness lifting me up, then pinning me to the bed. I ride him toward what is waiting for me, knowing that release is going take me fast. My toes are already curling up, muscles jumping in my thighs. Something hot spiraling outward and upward from the very center of my being. No, no, not yet, let this go on and on, please. Let go now. With a sudden shudder, I come, spraying upward.

It is like nothing I have ever felt. It must show in my face for there is great pleasure reflected in his. No darkness, instead bright sharp contractions that catch him, hold him. His eyes shut, he has seen me come. Now he looks inward, riding the rocket to the end.

I hold him close while our breathing slowly slides down to something approaching normality. We are still kissing each other. The room grows quiet.

The emptiness I feel when he slides down and off of me sends a sudden chill skittering over my skin. Not supposed to feel this sadness at it being over. Where's the joy that comes from winning? God, what have I done? What have we done?

I reach up, trying to stop him from departing.

-It's OK, Mulder. I'm just going go clean up.

He pauses, smiles at me.

-I told you; I'm not leaving. Ever.

***************

I wasn't sure what had awakened me. I know that I had already slept longer than I usually could in my bed. Perhaps it is because of his warm body that is hard against my back, his breath soft against my head. He is holding me. He did not leave.

I gently move his arm from over me and slide out, covering him back with the sheet and a light blanket. The heat that he puts out almost makes blankets unnecessary. He mutters something, turns to his other side and settles back down, never really waking. Padding to the bathroom, I am still wondering at just what I, we, have set in motion here. Was this really what I wanted?

Back in the bedroom, I grab a blanket, wrap up in it, and settle down on the floor to watch him sleep. His back is a strong curve under the blanket, he is gripping the edge of the bed in one hand. What are you dreaming, Walter, what are you dreaming?

So much pleasure you gave me tonight, I muse, so much. Is this what love really is? If it is, then it *is* very different than fucking. Spooky thought there. Guys aren't supposed to be able to tell the difference, right? My toes curl just thinking it. Playing over in my head the sights and sounds, the sensations that had grabbed me and taken me on that rocket ride. It was like nothing I had ever felt. It was then that I remembered the promise that I had made myself. A promise that had now changed in the intent. No longer part of the game. Now I wanted to give him back some of the same pleasure that he had so freely given me. Wondering at the same time if he, Walter Skinner, would allow me to do so.

With his usual Skinner passion for neatness, Walter had spent the time while I was in shower, making the bed fit to sleep in. For some reason, it didn't bother me that he didn't join me in the shower. Perhaps he was saving it for another time. Typical of him not to eat all the candy available at once.

The sight of him, towel wrapped around his waist, remaking my bed caught my breath in my throat. A small smile was playing about his face. With anyone else, it might have been a sweet smile, but there is nothing. *sweet* about his face. It was a time when I thanked the gods for my memory; this would be a good one to balance the horrors that are trapped there. Once again, pleasure made me laugh.

-A place for everything and everything in it's place. Eh, Walter?

That got me snapped with his towel.

-Come to bed, Mulder. I'm an old man. I'm worn out

Yeah...

I stand, dropping the blanket. Now I know what I am going to do. Taking the lube and a condom out of the bedside table, putting them by my pillow; I crawl into bed with him. The heat from his naked body has kept the bed warm for me. We are sleeping sky clad, as the witches call it.

Curling up around his back spoon fashion, I reach over him, sliding my fingers down to his cock. He is almost hard, the early morning kind. He mutters again. I hold still 'til his breathing evens out, before I pull my hand back. God, I hope he lets me do this, lets me give him this. It's not like paying for a dinner or a movie. Please let this happen, Walter.

Slicking down one finger with the lubricant, I quickly slide it through the tight ring of muscle. He shifts, a breath sighs out of him. I slide the finger in and out, in and out, greasing up two more. A second finger with the first now, just stretching him a little.

His breathing changes. He is awake.

-It's OK, Walter. Let me make love to you...please.

Giving him back his words, followed by sharp, small kisses down his spine. Licking and nipping every bit of warm skin that I can reach. All the while sliding those two fingers in and out, in and out. Now his breathing coarsens, he backs into my hand.

Three fingers. He shudders. I hear his fingernails rasp along the sheet. With just the right reach, I find that single little spot that can give such bright delight, gently scraping across it. Now the shudder is accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. And again, in and out, stroking that place each time. I hear my name, spoken so softly that it is only breathed out. In and out, he is shaking.

\- Fox. Now?

I feel the words more than hear him say them.

-Now, Walter.

Condom on, I push at the entrance, then slide in. The tightness holds me firm. The heat from his flesh is now like a furnace. In and out, in and out. The rhythm of my hand repeated for us both. He is gasping for breath, words that sound like my name provide a counterpoint for the strokes. I reach over him again and grab his now very hard cock.

In and out, up and down, he is bucking against me. The rhythm is going into that same wild place it flew us before. No stopping now, I am pulled along with him. Once again, the sound of our breathing is all that fills the room.

Then it is the sound of my name that fills the room. He is caught, bucking hard against my hand, hard against my hips. The release sets off spasms that hold me tight inside of him. Only seconds behind him, I too am groaning out my release. Once again, like nothing I have ever experienced, not at all like the first time, yet still familiar in it's joy.

He let me, he let me love him back. That knowledge flares open inside my brain and body like the sun coming up over the horizon. We arch back together. I hold him tight against me, he holds me tight inside of him. My name echoes in the room as I bury my face in his back. What have we done, Walter? What have we gone and done?

This time, it is me that leaves to go clean up. I return to the bed with a damp warm towel and help him get clean. The sun is now up, small shafts of sunlight lay on the floor in measured spaces. Walter is sliding back into sleep, the smile back on his face. I touch that smile. Grab my sweats, socks and running shoes.

-Going running, be back shortly. I'll start the coffee.

It is cold and sharp outside. The cold air feels good. I am already very warm. The stretching exercises out of the way, I throw myself into the run.

At the end of the block Alex Krycek joins me. Gracefully balanced in spite of his missing arm. Wonder how he learned that, knowing that he would never allow a missing part to slow him down with *anything*. I falter a little, then we are running, in stride together, down the street.

No good thing comes without pain.

I should have been a little more paranoid.

Finis

The "No Common Senses" series will end with Part 5 "A Sight of...Another POV".

 

* * *

 

06 Apr 1998

Disclaimer: This is the work of fiction. All the characters in this work of fiction belong to the following: Chris Carter, he, of the marvelous mind. 1013 Productions and the FOX network. There is no copywrite infringement intended. But if they want to hunt me down, just send one of these guys to do it.  
This is R, some violence, M/M sexual allusion, and the language is...human. M/K, M/Sk   
Archived at MKRA/MSSS, please. And on JiM's page via Mona, please.   
Notes: Ah Master, once again you have talked me into putting my neck on the chopping block.   
Many, many thanks to JiM for beta reading and capturing all those stray comma's and pronouns. It was only with her help that this came into being. Any mistakes that you see here are all mine.  
This is the final companion piece in the "No Common Senses... series. Feedback is always welcomed, but let it be constructive feedback. Thanks for taking the time to read this.

* * *

A Sight of... <Mulder>  
by Leila

Off early. Reports finished, Scully out for the day, and now a chance for me to run while it was still daylight. Free time, is something that seems to rarely happen for me, so I grab it. And too, a chance to get to Walter's place before he does. Maybe I would leave him enough hot water to shower with this evening, although he never seems to leave me enough when I came in late.

The run feels good, stretching muscles, moving, pushing the pace harder and harder. Running is one of the few things I do with my mind on blank. I would never tell Walter this, it would earn me a lecture about "always being alert, no matter what you are doing". For a moment I flash on just how alert he was last night as I held my mouth so still on his cock, just licking him gently. Not very alert, Walter, not alert at all.

I am still not really sure just what has happened here over the last several weeks. We are still feeling our way around in this relationship, if it can be called such. It is so new. New to us both. The sudden surprise to roll over at night and find myself up against his warm, solid body. A warm, solid body that is suddenly awake and instantly ready to defend itself. The first night I stayed over neither of us got any sleep. And not because we didn't want to. Now there is a comfort to roll over against him and feel his welcome, as he throws an arm over me, or spoon fashion molds himself to me. We sleep very well together. 

We do spend most of our time here, at his apartment. It is larger, has more room for the both of us, and of course it is cleaner and better stocked with food, than mine will ever be. It seems that he is much more at ease here, in his own surroundings than at my place. I have to remind myself at times how much more Walter is...alert, yes alert is a good word for what he is. Walter is alert, to himself, to his surroundings, even to his body, much more than anyone that I know. If we start spending time at my place I am sure that slowly, but persistently, it will become his place as well, as he puts his mark on it. Me, well, all I have done so far is leave sunflower seed shells around his apartment. And some clothes. Nothing to show that I've really been here. 

The apartment is quiet. After my shower I lay down on the bed, just meaning to rest for a few minutes. With the clean, sharp scent of Walter's soap and the more musky, warm smell of the bed blanketing me, I find myself drifting off.

It is the sound of the shower that wakes me. That and some other sound that I can't identify. Pulling on my sweat pants, trying to put my shirt on I get tangled up with the towel I was carrying back to the bath room, realizing that I had taken all of the clean towels. I wander out into the hallway.

For an instant; all I can smell is ocean fog. My mouth floods with the memory of his taste, a dead, metallic taste. The memory of the touch of his mouth on my cheek feels like a physical blow. Why is he smiling? Why am I afraid of that smile? Possibly because of the gun he holds pointed at my chest.

-Hi.

-Krycek! What the hell are you doing here?

He looks like he is strung out on something. His green eyes, huge in his thin face, are fever bright, focusing only on me. I know that he doesn't want to smile, but his social mask is fixed firmly on that feral face. Oh Alex, what are you doing? What are you going to do?

-Krycek...

-Shut up.

The gun doesn't move. We are caught in amber, preserved in our own little cosmos.

The silence as the shower shuts off shatters the amber.

-Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?

Oh God, how does he know I'm out here? My mind struggles to find some meaning in this waking nightmare. My gun, my gun is nowhere available. No gun. No weapon. Throw the towel at him. Throw myself at him. Shit, why is he here? 

I told him that cold morning, I told him while we were running. It was not going to happen. The cost of his information, too high, I told him. Much too expensive. Don't do this Alex, it will cost you more than you can ever know. 

-Daddy's calling, Mulder. Give him his towel. Slowly.

The gun doesn't move. I do as he says, opening the door and throwing the towel into the warm steam filled bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind it.

-Call him out here.

With those words, I know why Alex Krycek is here. Now I know that the smile is nothing more than Alex baring his teeth in a feral snarl at the world...particulary at Walter Skinner. There is a smell of something hot, something acrid. His thin face is all angles and points; it is flushed with the need that has cursed him. The need to take something that he can never have. Something that I will not give him. Ah Alex, no.

-No

My voice comes from someplace inside of me, a place that I hadn't known. existed. A place filled with strength and clarity. It is the place that Walter is building in me. I can not let this happen, I will not let this happen. The gun doesn't move.

-"No" what? Who are you talking to, Mulder.

With that, the door opens and Walter Skinner steps into the narrow hallway, the one he keeps complaining about. He has a towel wrapped around his waist and his glasses are misted over with steam. Heat seems to radiate from him. His awareness of Krycek and the gun are almost instantaneous. I see his body tighten. 

 And then he steps between me and Krycek and the gun.

-Krycek.

-Skinner.

I want to scream. No. You cannot do this Walter. I will not let you do this. I push against him trying to get him away from the gun.. His warm, solid body, the one that means so much to me, that warm solid body merely braces itself against the walls of this deathtrap hallway. He just stands there, immovable, between me and the gun.

-Mulder. Get out of here.

Which one of them said that?

-No.

I watch Krycek over Walter's shoulder. The gun never moves.

-Alex. Don't do this. Please.

I try to gentle him, coax some reason into his fever hot eyes, make the gun drop.

-It was always going to come to this, Mulder.

The pain in his voice is so evident. Poor Alex, he still doesn't get it. I try again.

-It doesn't have to be _this_ way.

-No. You could come with me. Step around him and come here. Leave with me.

There is no hesitation in my reply, the words spilling out of my mouth in their hurry to make the truth known.

-No, Alex

Pain flares in his eyes, only for an instant. Then death is there, looking out of those wide green eyes. No fever now, only cold, cold death.

-Then here we are.

The gun moves in a gesture of mockery. I see the muscles in Walter's back slide and twitch, he is tensing himself to charge. Jesus, what now?

-Don't.

The word is hisses out between clenched jaws. Which one of us said that?

The gun is back. Pointed at Walter's chest. Held in a steady grip. The gun doesn't move. Krycek is displaying his sharp teeth in that feral smile.

-These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. 45 Hardballs. They can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you don't seem to be wearing that much.

Again time is trapped in amber. We stand frozen. There is no sound but our breathing. All of us are almost panting, like we have been running a great distance...with no end in sight. I feel Walter take a deep breath. Then another. Now I know what he has chosen. I know what he will do. Don't do this, Walter, remember you said that you would never leave me. Remember. Remember.

I no longer need to think about what I am doing; I wrap my arms around Walter Skinner. Holding myself tight against him. No, Walter, you aren't going to leave me. I won't let you leave me. Not here, not now, not this way. He shudders against me. I want to reassure him, hold him, kiss him. I brush my lips against his ear, his warm, clean smell fills my nose. No more fog, no more smell of burning. Walter, warm and solid in my grasp. 

Poor Alex.

-Please. Go

I feel the words under my hands, echoing in his chest, circling in my mind, beating in my heart.

The hate seeps out of me, no longer of importance, in this moment of truth. Walter Skinner would die for me. That knowledge alone is almost more than I can comprehend. We have never said those words to each other, never said them. But I know. Now he knows.

And now, Alex, knows. The gun doesn't move.

-I won't let you leave me.

Walter is very still in my arms. I lean into him. I watch Alex's face. Watch a myriad of emotions race across it. The gun doesn't move.

Make it a good shot, Alex, make it good. Make sure it does us both. You don't want just one of us to survive, oh no Alex, you don't want that. Kill us both...and do it right. You don't want to leave one of us behind to lay on you all the grief and pain that will be left. Kill us both. 

The gun doesn't move. 

There is nothing that you can do, Alex, that is going to change what I now know, what I now feel.

I tighten my hold, close my eyes and bury my face in Walter's shoulder. Our breathing slows, we stand together, calm and quiet.. I no longer see Alex Krycek. I no longer look at death.

There is silence.

Then I feel Walter jerk in my arms. I open my eyes to an empty hallway. 

The gun is gone. Alex Krycek is gone.

Walter lets out a long shaky breath.

-Jesus, Mulder. Would you be more careful who you flirt with next time?

With those totally inappropriate words echoing in the still air of the hallway, I can do nothing but laugh.

Walter turns in the circle of my arms. His face is wet with tears. I hold him, feeling the wetness of those tears. But I can't stop laughing, my reaction to this, this abrupt ending of the nightmare that was Alex Krycek, just as inappropriate as his. The joy of holding him, that's why I am laughing. He wraps his arms around me as if we could melt into each other, become one. His. Mine.

-I love you.

-Oh. Good. I'd hate to think you do this for all of your dates.

-Shut up.

Poor Alex.

This is the end of the "No Common Senses Series.


End file.
